PS 3505 
■U46 K5 
1892 
Copy I 




PAUL HAZLITT DAVIS. 

very well agree with you in hopes of him."— Winter's Tale. 



Knick-Knacks 



BY 

Hazlitt Alva Cuppy 



INDIANAPOLIS / v « •v 

Mccormick & co.. publishers 
1892 



75 3^^ 



%r^ 



Copyright 1892 

BY 

Hazlitt Alva Cuppy. 



DEDICATED 



PAUL HAZLITT DAVIS 



SON OF MY FRIEND 



NOTE. 

Some of the selections which follow have ap- 
peared in various publications over Mr. Cuppy's 
name, or H. R. Knox of Amity. Others Mr. Cuppy 
has recited with success in different parts of this 
country, and in London and Oxford while studying 
at that ancient university. The reception which 
has been accorded them has led us to present them 
before the public in their present form. 

The Publishers. 



PREFACE. 

It is that season of the year when nat- 
ure has just cleaned house, and spread 
broadcast beneath trees, beautifully deco- 
rated with green foliage, her carpets of 
green velvet. I am on the banks of the 
Neckar, in one of the most unique, as well 
as one of the most beautiful, of gardens. 
Lying on the cushioned earth, breathing 
the sweet fragrance of the lilacs and the 
apple blossoms, stealing an hour from the 
busiest year of my student life, I am to 
write a preface — that part of a volume no 
one reads, except the proofreader. I have 
no excuse to make for perpetrating upon 
the public this little volume. Let him who 
would crush, under his heel, the sprout- 
ing oak, because it did not spring from the 
ground a full grown tree ; let him who 
would pluck the buds away because they 
are not full grown flowers, cut what plumes 
I feign would grow, away. thou critic, 
(5) 



art thou man or beast or devil, 
crude combination of the three. By what 
right do you judge men, play upon their 
heartstrings, sound their depths, from what 
vantage ground do you pose, to guide 
men's likes, and their fancies ? As I tossed 
upon my pillow, I thought I saw the ghost 
of Keats, and it branded you a murderer; 
then I woke and knew I had been dream- 
ing, for no criticism killed Keats, it was 
want of love. But this want never was 
known to kill a critic. 

Birds that never try weak wings will 
never fly. Flowers that never bud will 
never bloom. First the misty dawn, and 
then the full blaze of the noon. Then don't 
expect from youthful efforts what you 
would from manhood's prime. 

It is sufficient to say, regarding tho se- 
lections in dialect, that I was born in a 
modest cabin, in one of the back counties 
of Indiana, and heard nothing else during 
my early childhood. 

Fortunately my hour is up, and I must 
off to my next lecture in the University. 
Hazlitt Alva Cuppy. 

Ville Felseck, May 20th, 1892. 
Heidelberg, Germany. 
(6) 



CONTENTS. 

PART I. 

PAGE. 

I Know 11 

The Summum Bonum 13 

Musings 14 

My Revenge 16 

At Felseck 18 

Under the Magnolia 20 

In East London 21 

To Pessimists 23 

In the Reading Room British Museum 24 

The Verse-Maker's Apology 26 

Despair versus Hope 29 

Cupid's Play 29 

Poets 30 

PART II. IN DIALECT. 

March 33 

Them Wild Geese 35 

The Punkin 37 

The Office Seeker 39 

Winter 42 

Jim 44 



(7) 



PART 



(9) 



KNICK-KNACKS. 



I KNOW 



T know when angels weep. 
By my window grew a primrose ^ 
Sweetly innocent of foes, 
Sweetly innocent of woes, 
Which the future so oft throws 
In a life where virtue glows. 
But a man of gold arose, 
And my little rose he chose; 
And we sold it for the rows 
Of the glittering gold he throws 
At our feet. Yes, God knows! 
I know when angels weep. 

I know when angels weep. 
By my own life once there grew, 
One so innocent and true, 
One whose nature sparkled too, 
(11) 



Like the tiny drops of dew 
Kissing the sunbeams, painted new 
By the dawn they're darting through, 
What we do we can't undo! 
A stranger one day riding through, 
\yith much gold began to sue; 
And we — and we — sold her too! 
I know when angels weep. 



(12) 



THE SUMMUM BONUM. 

I searched among the rubies for the gem of 
greatest price, 

I sought among the virtues for a bahn for 
every vice, 

I sought the summum bonum of the future 
and to-day, 

A something that belonged to the All-eter- 
nal sway, 

That which is of God and humanity a part, 

That which deigns to delve in the deeps of 
every heart. 

The one connecting thread of the future and 
the past, 

Eureka, I have found it! hear the trum- 
pet's joyful blast. 

Piercing heaven and earth and the starry 
depths above 

This message to all ages — The eternal thing 
is love. 



(13) 



MUSINGS. 

One day as I sat me musing, 
Vacancy alone perusing; 
Idly dreaming of to-morrow 
And the joys from it I'd borrow, 
Suddenly I saw a vision; 
Outlined there in great precision, 
In two little drops of water; 
In two crystal drops of water. 
Just outside my garden window, 
I saw Cupid with his bow. 
And the prettiest little fairy 
Clad in costume lithe and airy. 
Well, thought I, I'll watch you two, 
Watch the cup of love you brew. 
First he bowed to her quite low, 
From his crystal drop you know, 
She with modest winsome grace 
Shyly turned aside her face 
Half repelling, yet inviting 
With her blushes, thus inciting 
Cupid's homage from the start; 
For his shaft pierced heart and heart. 
As I sat debating whether 
I should roll the drops together, 
Lo, a sunbeam from the sun 
And the zephyrs made them one, 

(14) 



And I thought I heard him Avhisper 
As he stooped and fondly kissed her: 
'Thus, my dear, is all true love 
Kissed by sunbeams from above." 



(15) 



MY REVENGE. 

So fair to see; 

So dear to me. 
I told her so, but don't you know 
She'd ^^never thought of that." 

I told her how 

That even now 
I loved her so; she said ''no, no," 
She ^'couldn't think of that." 



Myself I manned, 

I took her hand 
And held it long, and breathed a song 
That she should yet be mine. 



I plead my cause 

Until my jaws 
Refused to ope'. Deceitful hope 
That lead me on to this. 



She seemed so glad 

To feel so bad, 
That I got mad (unseemly lad) 
And flung her hand away. 
(-16) 



''Sony for you, 

Am sorry too; 
But I can't do, what I might rue, 
For any man," she said. 



Since last we met, 

Altho' her net 
Is ever set, I don't forget 
That she's not married yet. 



(17) 



AT FELSECK. 

Here are clumps of trees, where the gentle 
breeze 
Makes love to the leaves all day ; 
And the sweet perfume of the lilac's bloom, 

As the zephyrs steal it away ; 
And the warbling notes, from the little 
throats, 
Which make up Earth's orchestra; 
And the heliotrope, with its mission of 
hope. 
As it pleads in its fragrant way. 
Here the daisies pose, near the budding 
rose. 
Where the midday shadows play. 
When the sun lies down, in his great red 
crown. 
And the queen of night rides o'er. 
In the moon-light pale, then the nightin- 
gale 
Perches just before our door, 
Where he sits and sings, and his clear note 
rings. 
While the stars are out on parade ; 
E'en the dawn is stayed, by his music 
swayed 
'Till the sun's again arrayed, 

(18) 



In his rope of light ; then the dawn takes 
flight, 
While the songster seeks some shade. 
So the flowers, and trees, and the birds 
and bees, 
And the good things Nature's made, 
Have stolen my heart, from the very first 
start. 
It's much better than I've portrayed. 



(19) 



UNDER THE MAGNOLIA. 

Love came to me on the wings of morn, 
Breathing the sweets of the Seraph's song: 
Fresh and pure, as the lily white — 
A very angel in its flight. 

I swore to resist her charms and smiles, 
And put her away with the afterwhiles; 
But against her arts I strove in vain. 
For Cupid had wrought his golden chain. 

And I was bound, yes, heart and soul. 
Through life, in death, for in yon green 

knoll 
O'erhung by the sweet magnolia tree. 
Lies — yes, my love and me. 



(20) 



IN EAST LONDON. 

Come, my child, I know you're cold, don't 

cry ! 
Yesterday I staggered out seeking bread. 
At length I came upon a church, where 

prayers are said ; 
It seems, my child, the love of God took 

wings and fled ; 
For those worshipers were cold, their hearts 

are dead ! 
Come, my child, I know you're cold, don't 

cry! 

Come, my child, I know you're cold, don't 

cry! 
It's not given me to understand why. 
For want of warmth and bread, you and I 

must die ; 
Perchance our death will soften some poor 

heart that's dry — 
Would that those, who have to spare, could 

feel thy sigh ! 
Come, my child, I know you're cold, don't 



cry! 



(21) 



Come, my child, I know you're cold, don't 

cry! 
Christ was poor, he may have hungered, 

and been cold. 
Some who worship in fine clothes, forget 

He told 
A certain one to sell his goods, and give 

his gold 
To the poor; O God, has love's death knell 

been tolled ? 
Come, my child, I know you're cold, don't 

cry! 



(22) 



TO PESSIMISTS. 

Don't growl at the clouds, there's sun 

'tween the showers, 
Haven't we thistles and thorns along with 

the flowers? 
He's a fool who plucks nothing but thorns 

on the way, 
Leaving fresh blooming flowers to wither 

away; 
Shame on the growler and pessimist too, 
If God has regrets, 'tis because he made 

you. 



(23) 



IN THE READING ROOM OF THE 
BRITISH MUSEUM. 

How I love to delve and finger 
Books of quaint historic lore, 

How I love to read and linger 
O'er events of days of yore. 

And I love to glean from pages 
Of the world's historic past, 

All that's best in all her stages ; 
All that bears eternal cast. 

Yet, methinks as now I wander 

Through the things which I have read; 

As I think' and weigh and ponder 
What great men have done and said, 

That this earth is but the foreground, 

But a busy training school, 
Where all shades and grades abound 

From wise men down to the fool. 

What is life but our great teacher 
Pointing us to higher things ? 

Conscience pleads with every creature, 
'Tis the devil's sting that stings. 

(24) 



Then what is the highest duty ? 

Hath man power to guide his life, 
Spurn the dross and choose but beauty, 

Wave aside this constant strife ? 

Would the oak then be the stronger. 
Not to force its roots in earth, 

Would its branches wave the longer, 
Not to battle from their birth ? 

No, the conflicts each encounters. 
If he battles with his might, 

Only test that power which conquers. 
They can never crush him quite. 

Hope, white winged, o'er us hovers, 
Hope peeps from each little flower ; 

She, in each, some good discovers. 
And she wields a blessed power. 

Life is largely what we make it ; 

We may gather thorns alone. 
But forget not such a transit 

Makes life one continual groan. 

Virtue, truth, and right we'll cherish. 
With the best, of all earth gives. 

Such a life will never perish, 
Through eternity it lives. 
(25) 



THE VERSE-MAKER'S APOLOGY. 

Let him who reads my modest verse, 
Not judge them quick ; 
Lest judgment be perverse. 
I grant they are not terse; 
But rough .and thick; 
But poorest rhymes might still be worse. 

Could I so guide this pen in line, 
Shape thought and word, 
Or mold in phrases fine. 
In terse and gentle rhyme, 
Quite clean, unblurred, 
Those thoughts which crowd this soul of 
mine, 

I'd hold mong men, a place to-day 
Such thoughts deserve. 
Yet thoughts in thick array 
Can not be hid away, 

Perhaps they swerve ; 
Still one may find their pent up ray. 
(26) 



Some see the form of what they read 
And nothing more, 
And haste with cruel speed, 
And most unmanly greed. 
To loudly roar 
To all the world our glaring need. 

Some read only our faults to find, 
Poor silly fools, 
With thoughts to dross inclined 
Their heads are always primed, 
They're Fads, poor tools. 
They are and will be always blind. 

And so, most men see but one phase 

Of what they see. 

They grope in narrow ways 

Unconscious, all their days. 

That truth, to be 

Full truth, must gather all the rays. 

I would we were, as some have said, 
Not what we are, 
But that which, if we're led 
By hope's eternal thread — 
Our guiding star — 
We may he, if we push ahead. 
(27) 



There is no man who's wholly naught; 
His manhood slain, 
A spark is there; if sought 
Perchance it may be brought 
To life again. 
Don't crush him, for his every fault. 

Condemn, then, not these modest rhymes, 
Unworthy things; 
May be to other minds 
These awkward little lines 
Some comfort brings. 
'Tis enough if one heart something finds. 

Let him who would as critic pose 
See every side. 
The thorns grow with the rose ; 
Bad form quite often goes 
And need we chide, 
With thoughts which scarce their tend 
disclose. 



(28) 



DESPAIR VERSUS HOPE. 

Despair sits on a hollow tomb 
And mocks me by the hour; 

Hope alone dispels the gloom, 
She wields the better power. 



CUPID'S PLAY. 

Two little hearts, like drops of dew 
Lay sparkling in the sun; 

Cupid aimed his shaft so true 
He bound them into one. 



(29) 



POETS. 

We silly rhymsters sing and sing, 
And think we make our music ring 
The world around. 

We twang our lyre — poor little thing, 
And yet Old Time will only bring 
A little mound. 



(30) 



PART 1!. IN DIALECT. 



(31) 



MARCH. 

Growl at March if you will; 
Jes go and rack your brain, 
Frown, murmur an' complain; 
Say, thare'b alius too much rain, 
Er thare hit's snowin' again: 
Jes carry on like one insane 
Until you jes git your fill. 

March suits me well as not; 

Whare'd you git a grander sight, 

Er what could give us more delight 

Than out in the sugar camp some night 

A-stirrin' off and holdin' tight 

The wax we pull with all our might ? 

March suits me well as not. 

March suits me well as not; 
Hit seems like sunshine a-slippin' through 
The clouds o' winter fer me an' you; 
A-meltin' the frost an' kissin' the dew: 
Bringin' the maple buds out too, 
Ah, what's the use o' gittin' blue? 
March suits me well as not. 
3 (33) 



Growl at March if you will, 
An' preach that hit 's all wrong; 
Alone, I'll bet you're carryin' on. 
Do the birds murmur in their song, 
Er complain when hit snows along 
In March? But fret an' ding-dong 
Until you jes git your fill. 



^34^ 



THEM WILD GEESE. 

Heerd wild geese, agin to-day, 

Seven times, I've heerd 'em holler, 
An' you know what's goin' to f oiler ; 
Hit means 'at fall has had her sway 
An' winter's comin', right away. 

Fer forty years I've watched their flight. 
Towards the north every spring, 
Alius strung out in a string. 
Some old gander in his might 
A-leadin' the others, day an' night. 

You ort to see 'em, as they fly, 

An' hear their gander, in goose talk, 
A-makin' the others walk the chalk. 

Wy, they alius as they fly, 

Skute along, up thare so high, 

'At you jes can hear their cry. 



Jes the same in fall er spring, 

Goin' north or goin' south; 

Hit matters not, they use their mouth 
Warnin' people as they sing. 
Way up thare on the wing. 
(35) 



So it is, with every thing 

Drawin' breath on top of earth, 
They have a purpose from their birth ; 
Some mission, to the world to bring, 
Summer, winter, fall er spring. 

Hits jes the same with you, er me, 
Thare's alius plenty little things, 
Ef we but do them, don't you see, 
As we ort, we hold the key 
To a safe eternity. 



(36) 



THE PUNKIN. 

You may talk of the apple, the peach, er 

the pear, 
Er cherries, er blackberries, I don't care; 
Jes brag of yer tropical fruits from afar, 
Er the juicy ripe grapes in yer fruit agent's 

jar, 
But I'll sing of a fruit 'at beats 'em all; 
'Tis the punkin, gethered yaller, 'long in 

the fall. 

I like to go out when they're shuckin' the 

corn, 
'Long airly in the evenin' er late in the 

morn, 
An^ toss in the punkins on top of the load. 
An' watch thare yaller sides as they go 

down the road: 
So I'll sing of the punkin, the joy of my 

heart. 
Which my appetite craves a good 'eal — a 

right smart. 

Jes think o' thim sliced into strips nice an' 

thin 
A-swingin' from the ceilin' by a string! 

Hit's a sin 

(37) 



The way I like punkiii all dried nice an* 

brown, 
Fer hit's better'n 'em fruits 'at you git in 

yer town; 
So I'll sing of the punkin, the joy of my 

heart, 
Which my appetite craves a good 'eal — a 

right smart. 

An' 'n when the ground's all covered with 

snow, 
Thare's nuthin' from the kitchen 'at tickles 

me so. 
As a great fat slice of good punkin pie — 
Hush, when I have none, hit makes me 

sigh — 
But I'll sing of a fruit 'at beats 'em all; 
'Tis the punkin, gethered yaller, 'long in 

the fall. 



(38) 



THE OFFICE SEEKER. 

Our Mister President,— Dear Sir, 
I sez's soon as this 'lection stir 
Is quieted down a leetle, I'll 
Jes put my pen an' ink on trial, 
To write you. General, about a few 
0' the trials we had, a 'lectin' you. 

But I've jes bin so bizzy here ; 
You know 'at jes this time o' year 
Hog killin' comes— I wished 'at you 
Could taste the sausage, 'at my Sue 
Fixed up, er some fresh tenderline 
Jes like she fries here all the time. 

An' after hog killin', the corn's to gether, 

An' 'at took time, an' I didn't know whether 

I'd git to write to you at all ; 

A right smart chance o' rain this fall. 

Has kept me back a leetle, yit 

Rain er shine, I had to git. 

Fer up to 'lection time, you know, 
I hadn't done a thing, but go 
To speakin's, er lazed around the town, 
A-talkin' politics to Brown; 
Now Brown's a red hot Democrat, 
An' swears he'll alius stick to that. 
(39) 



He takes keer o' the mails, an' keeps 
The store, an' has fer weeks an' weeks, 
But now then, as like as enny way, 
You'll turn him out some rainy day. 
I jes wished you would, fer he 
Is as mean as a Democrat can be. 

Wy he made all sorts o' fun, 
An' yelled an' laughed at every one 
Who said a word fer you er me — 
I run for marshal don't you see ? 
I got beat, but I don't keer 
Jes so you can take your cheer. 

Now I've heerd hit talked as how 
I'd make a first-class man, jes now, 
To keep the office in place of Brown, 
But 'at's jes idle talk, in town 
I guess. La sakes, how he'd whine ! 
But I don't keer, 'taint half the time 

We git our mail, jes as we ort. 
But Brown, you know, is jes that sort 
A feller, 'at haint got no sense 
About some things, 'specially expense, 
W'y he don't keer no more fer that. 
Than some big boodle Democrat. 
(40) 



What I said, I'll stick to yit, 
I wouldn't give a straw fer hit, 
But ef no other man is found 
In the country er the town, 
Ruther 'an leave it with old Brown 
I'll try an' hold the office down. 



(41) 



WINTER. 

'Long this winter, I haint been doin' much 
But jes piddle' round, chop wood an' feed. 

I made Tom Markham's boy a krutch, 
An' a sled for Marg'ret Reed. 

I've done my chores around the house. 
Mended up my geers, sharpened up my 
tools, 

Fixed traps to ketch a rat er mouse, 
An' sheared my naber's mules. 

Now I like winter, jes cause hit's cold; 

I like a great big rousin' fire 
That I can poke an' hear hit scold — 

Hit's much as I desire. 

'Tis then we have our milk an' mush, 
An' make our taffy, an' pull hit too, 

Pop our corn an' stir hit in — hush! 
Hush, I'm gettin' blue! 



But I like winter with her long nights 
Of frolic an' fun, with nothin' to do 

But jes laz 'round an' keep up lights, 
An' poke the fires an' — don't you? 

(42) 



Is the ant lazy 'cause she don't work 
In winter, er is the bee a drone? 

Er is old slick tailed 'possum a shirk, 
Fer lazin' in his home? 

Does he cuss winter, er frown er fret? 

Does he growl at ice er git blue, 
An' hang his head an' froth an' sweat. 

Like some good men 'ill do? 

Winter's my choice, as I hev said, 
An' my next best I guess is fall, 

But spring an' summer I don't dread, 
I'll say I like 'em all. 



f43) 



JIM 

Thare warn't no idler feller 'an Jim; 
Jes so idle 'at he got tired 

A-bein idle. 
Lazed around, had no vim, 
Ner nuthin'; w'y, ef he got mired 

You'd jes sidle 
Up an' yank him out, 
Then feel like kickin' the little sprout. 

I know we all felt sorry fer him, 
An' kept perdictin' 'at he'd die 

With sheer laziness; 
Nobody couldn't do nothin' with Jim; 
Wouldn't work, ner wouldn't try; 

Hit crazed us 
Nabers to see that feller 
A-growin' up so soft an' meller. 

But up he growed, short an' thin, 
An' finally tuck to readin' books, 

An' givin' shows; 
Thare warn't no better acter'n Jim: 
Jes bend hisself in double crooks, 

Use his toes 
Fer stilts, an' mabbe roll 
Hisself like lightnin' 'round a pole: 
(44) 



Swing his toes across a lim' 

Let loose his han's an' hang down, 

Skin a cat, 
Balance a cheer on his chin, 
With heels up an' han's down; 

Jes like that 
He'd run all over town; 
Wy, he's better 'n any clown. 



Hours an' hours I talked to him; 
'Twarn't no use, done no good; 

I lost hope; 
Then, says I to our nabers, Jim 
Is lost, I've done all I could; 

I fear a rope, 
Says I to my wife. 
Will end that poor feller's life. 

Kept on a-readin' books did Jim, 
An' finally tuck to paintin' signs 

On the fences. 
Done his work as neat an' trim 
As anybody. Made the dimes 

An' all expenses; 
Quit a-bein' lazy 

An' tuck to paintin' like he's crazy. 
(45) 



But that didn't last long with him 
He soon jined a medicine band 

A-travelin' through. 
Then, says I, hit's good-by Jim, 
A¥e'll trust you to a wiser hand. 

'Twas somethin' new; 
He scored a big success. 
Spoke several poems, too, I guess, 



Pieces of rhyme, which 'at fool Jim 
Had writ hisself, then hired out 

Fer to write 
Locals an' sich things as thim 
'At he could pick up thare about 

Day er night; 
Kept on readin' an' writin', 
Composin' poems, an' recitin' 

'Em at took the people's whim, 
Then tuck to travelin' up an' down 

The whole state. 
An' everybody a-callin' fer him. 
An' every cussed little town 

Would allers rate 
Jim above 'em all; 
Him 'at 's so idle when he's small. 
(46) 



I never thought hit wus in him 
To write a book — yit he did 

More an' one. 
He wrote, did 'at idle Jim, 
An' with his writin' he jes' rid 

O'er every one. 
By Junks! I allers grin 
A-thinkin' what's done up in him. 

I've learned a lesson a-watchin' Jim; 
Don't condemn yer naber's son, 

Like me, too quick; 
No tellin' what's 'rapt up in him; 
Jes wait until his race is run, 

Fer that stick, 
As you an' me 'ud say, 
May turn out quite well gome day. 



(47^ 



' ye 



KniCK-KnncKS 



BY 



P?AZLITT flliYA ^UPPY 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

■I 

015 905 125 ( 



